


Reflection

by thehousewedestroyed



Series: The Rubbish Bin Behind the House We Destroyed Along The Way [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dirty Talk, Finger Sucking, Hogwarts, M/M, Mirror Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Underage Harry, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-11 13:12:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10465833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehousewedestroyed/pseuds/thehousewedestroyed
Summary: He is beautiful, lying there in only a thin sliver of moonlight that cracks through the curtains of the bed, meeting your eyes through the mirror.





	

_"For now we see through a glass, darkly."_ \- 1 Corinthians 13:12

 

 _"Call me on my cell phone/ Late night when you need my love/ I know when that hotline bling/ That can only mean one thing"_ \- Drake

 

 _"If_ _you gaze long into_ an _abyss_ , _the abyss also gazes into you_. " \- Friedrich Nietzsche

 

*

 

He is beautiful, lying there in only a thin sliver of moonlight that cracks through the curtains of the bed, meeting your eyes through the mirror. He is still wearing his glasses. You know his habits now from hours and nights of long talks; watching each other, breathing together. The glasses come off right before he falls asleep, fumbled safe under his pillow even as his eyes flutter closed and he starts to drift off.

For now, his green eyes are open, watching you intently.

'Can I see?' he murmurs.

You move the mirror slightly, so that he can glimpse your body. You are naked. You are in bed. There are sheets covering the lower half of you, for now, but he wets his lips at the short flash you give him, before you bring the mirror back up level with your face.

He has his mirror propped up next to him, and you can see more of him than he can see of you. His face, so like James, smiling at you. His shoulders, the stripes on the loose t-shirt he is wearing to bed.

You are both nearing exhaustion, watching each other in the dark and daring each other to fall asleep first or… or this. He has a silencing charm up, so no one else in the dormitory can hear you.

'If I could touch you,' you tell him, 'I would stroke your cheek with my thumb...'

'Like this?' he offers, ghosting his hand feather light over his own skin. He shivers and leans into it, almost as if it were not his own.

'Exactly like that. I would trace the shape of your jaw, and I would push your hair out of your eyes, and I would kiss you.'

He follows the described path, fingers landing to press at his lips. Index finger and middle finger landing light at his slightly parted mouth.

'Push inside,' you say.

He does. His lips shape around his fingers, soft and glistening, and you see a flicker of tongue as he pulls the digits into his mouth. It is an entrancing sight, watching his eyes flutter closed and his chest rise and fall as he does this for you. You feel like your blood is burning.

Your voice is hollow when you say, 'Now, down your neck.'

He keeps his fingers in his mouth, using his other hand to stroke down from the crevice behind his ear with dancing fingers to the little dip of his collarbone. You hear him whimper.

'Does it feel good?'

'Mmhmm.'

'Do you want more?'

Fingers come out of his mouth. 'Yeah.'

'I thought you were going to sleep?' you tease.

He still seems dozy to the point that his whole body is boneless, but he is awake enough for this. 'Can't sleep _now_.’

You bark out a laugh. 'Take your shirt off.'

He reaches up over his shoulders and pulls it over his head. It gets stuck multiple times, giving you flashes of belly and chest, wriggling as he tries to tug it off. After, his hair is even more messy, more wild, and you can see so much of him. Soft skin, all the way down to the little path of hair trailing from his belly button down… well, that is as far as you can see.

'I want to touch you so much, bloody hell,' you say, voice hoarse. 'Slowly. Starting at your shoulders, down your chest—that's it, lick your fingers again before you touch your nipples, I want to see them—yes, perfect, god. You're perfect. Down. Slowly. Slowly, Harry. Stop.'

He pauses, one hand just about to slip past where you can’t follow.

'Are you hard?' you ask him.

He nods.

'One finger, then, Harry. From your mouth, down to your dick. Straight line, slowly. Slower than that. That's it.'

He shivers as his hand grazes down his throat, stomach clenching as his hips shift. He turns his head to look at you again, moonlight flashing across his glasses. You can tell, out of sight, that his hips are rolling, thrusting up into nothing as he traces a path agonisingly down his body.

'Touch yourself,' you tell him, finally.

The noises are familiar. You have listened to him enough times. Gasps, stifled breaths then—as though remembering he can make noise if he wants to—quiet, almost self-conscious groans.

'Are you—too?' he gets out. You can't see his hand, but you can see the movement of his arm and he is touching himself fast, ready to finish. It is late. He has class tomorrow. It's best you don't draw this out.

You move the mirror so that he can see you, your hand around your prick, stroking yourself at the sight of him. You hear him moan, but you shift the mirror back because you would rather look at him. His eyes, when they meet yours, are glazed over with desire.

He bites down on his lip, the muscles in his stomach contracting. 'Together?' he says. 'Like the other night.'

' _Yes._ '

'I'm nearly—'

'Me too, me too.'

You could finish right now, looking at him like this, but you want to see him tumble over that edge before you do. You can see that it is right there, the sounds coming from his mouth little, desperate, ready pants.

'Let me see again,' he gasps, and you move your mirror again, let him look at you. Your own cock is leaking, purple tipped and waiting. You can hear the approval in his grunts, moans—but it is not until you move the mirror again to look at him that he meets your gaze and spills.

You see it shoot up across his stomach, pearly stripes in the moonlight. It splatters his chest, the patch of dark hair on his stomach, and you follow him over. You curl in on yourself as you spend messily over your sheets, into your hand, groaning out his name, until the two of you are lying there, panting, and it feels like you are lying together, not separated by a small square of silver and glass.

Wiping your hand on your bedsheets, you watch him shakingly clean himself up with a spell and pull the t-shirt clumsily over his head, tugging it down to cover himself again.

He curls up to face you. 'I'll talk to you in the morning,' he mumbles.

'Goodnight, Harry,' you say—and there it is. A warm smile and his glasses tucked safely under the pillow, and you have done it another night, again, because you can’t stop.

  



End file.
